Whimsical Obligations

What of these vows we make. Real or imagined. Spoken or, assumed. Promises behind cupped hands.

I still collect…broken things.

My vain attempt at avenging secrets I would rather not keep.

All whimsical obligations.

Random boughs on a trail to somewhere else.

Court ordered family lies.

Often seen in charming disguise.

Ironic, but away from the pledge, I never feared that I would not make it home.

Comfort came with words and song.

I am used to collecting used things.

Marred, scarred, dented.

I built with pride..this broken home.

My brother, my sister,

mainstream.

Outwardly able to live a lie.

Able to forgo…the why.

Still in the darkness of sleeplessness,

their anger cries.

UnWanted Guest

More to a vestibule for the dying

More to the communion

More of obsession’s admiration

More to those who fly

More to those who do not ponder why

Over and above…I keep the gods lowercase

Over and above, the stone dead and gone

Less of a willingness to comply

Less of puppy’s in the window

Less photographic harmony

Less bouncing joy on bended knee

“Let me go”  I say, more or less

There is a quiet place, more or less

Oh, sporadic the occasions of an unwanted guest

gravestone pitch

 

 

Anger a Sleeping Lion

I put anger in my pocket way down deep…

where as I lion, I hope, it will wane and sleep.

Atop of my head and nuzzled down tight with a knit cap. annoyance is no longer a friend.

I try to hide it behind the saltines and the mean drive by’s in the mind…

Anger’s persistence is not kind.

Into the woods, a daily walk.

Yet, a clandestine obscurity invades what I have not.

I have not the restfulness that wills itself to my soul.

Everywhere, everywhere, barren holes.

I will get to the end of my reach…one of these minutes.

Indignation will put the well-traveled deep…until weathered with forgiveness.

Booking Forgiveness

If this, single entity, called forgiveness…

were a book.tc cannon 4

It would be open…

amassed with complex, simple and congeal words.

Each letter…sharp as, the finest blade.

Still…the voyage of…forgetting…would not be saved.

I could, we could, the winds could…embody the same chapter…

The same verse…over and over.

Understanding would stand alone…misspelled.

Ill behaved.

Oh, how I have hoped…to pen the story of a world…

‘giving back all that it took.’

Chapters filled with mended hearts.

A romantic plot where love builds a home.

And, pain is driven be car…

far, far, away.imageedit_103_6772513128

But vision is lost…current day…in the burning building of thought.

Leaving a closed book…

With hope being accosted.

A victim of high cost.

 

Beneath the Bridge

Shallow is the heartbeat that rages a distended river.

Darkened and hearkened, by space and time.

A silence to the mossy flow.

And,  weathered innocence the only true forgiver.

Amidst the cool watery breath.

Laps of a sauntering solitude…

Await a crested wake.

Pockets of  hushed calm within the raging river.

Weathered innocence the only true forgiver.